Me and Mr Darcy (7 page)

He responds with a filthy scowl.

I feel a slap of indignation. What an asshole! And there was me just trying to be nice to him. Infuriated, I respond by glaring right back. Then he strides past me to the back of the tourbus and flings himself into the empty seat. Bristling, I sit back down. The driver starts up the engine and, as we begin to pull out of the parking lot, I make up my mind to ignore him.

Even if he is a handsome stranger
, pipes up a voice inside me.

For a millisecond I waver; but it’s just a millisecond. So what if he is? That doesn’t change anything. He’s
still
an asshole, and I’m
still
going to ignore him. Completely and utterly. For the whole week. Just you watch me.

 

I
must have dozed off because the next thing I know I’m waking up to discover we’ve pulled off the freeway – sorry, correction: motorway – and are now winding our way through the Hampshire countryside on some of the narrowest roads I’ve ever seen. Outside, a blur of hedges fly past, a vivid band of green against the blank, grey expanse of sky. It’s still drizzling and raindrops are weaving their way down the windowpanes, making everything look like a watercolour painting that’s gone all streaky.

‘This is the countryside that Jane Austen would have known growing up . . .’ our tour guide’s voice is chatting away over the microphone ‘. . . and which featured in many of her novels.’

There’s a buzz as people stop what they’re doing to look out of the windows. We’re entering a small village now. Rows of skinny red-brick houses line the tiny streets, their crisscross leaded windows glittering as we pass by. I stare at them, feeling a tingle of excitement. It’s just like I imagined. Over there, there’s even a village green with a duck pond and real ducks and everything.

I watch them bobbing contentedly, dipping their beaks into the water and raising their feathered bottoms comically into the air. I smile to myself, reminded of the ones in Central Park. Ducks, it would appear, like to stick their butts in the air whether they’re English
or
American.

But now they’re behind us, and as we manoeuvre round a tight corner I see a traditional English pub up ahead. Oh, my God, is that a real thatched roof? And does that sign actually read ‘Ye Olde’ something or other?

I squash my nose against the window in disbelief. I feel as if I’ve fallen asleep and woken up two hundred years ago. There’s not a Hummer or a Mac store, or even a Starbucks in sight. Just cobbled streets, a village church and real fires, I marvel, watching the smoke spiralling up from the chimney pots. It really is like being on a movie set. It’s hard to believe it’s not just a façade for tourists and as soon as we drive through it will be taken down and flat-packed until the next tourbus runs through.

‘And now ladies
and gentleman
. . .’ Miss Steane’s voice interrupts my daydream and I turn away from the window.

Gentleman? Hardly, I think dryly, remembering the obscenities this ‘gentleman’ yelled earlier. I flick my eyes back over my shoulder at the culprit in question. Mid-yawn, he catches me staring and sticks out his tongue.

How old is he?
Five
?

Irritated, I pretend to be looking at something behind him, but seeing as he’s on the back row and behind him it’s the washroom, I’m pretty much busted. Still, I’m way too proud to let him think he’s caught me, so I continue to gaze at the green
‘VACANT’
sign as if it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen until Miss Steane rescues me by chiming,

‘This is the Old Priory, where we’ll be staying for two nights, before continuing our journey to Bath.’

Gratefully I turn back to the view out of the window and—

Turning left into a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates, there’s the delicious sound of gravel crunching under the tyres as we slowly make our way up the broad, sweeping driveway. Just this is enough to set the wings of my anticipation fluttering. I’ve always thought you can tell instantly, just by the driveway alone, whether or not you’re going to love a place.
And I’m going to love this place.

Big, bold and beautiful, it stands at the top of the driveway to greet us like something torn from the pages of
Pride and Prejudice
– the kind of place I always imagined Netherfield Park, home of Mr Bingley, to be. I gaze at it in awe. Set in beautiful grounds, with ivy-covered walls, an imposing entrance and rambling outbuildings, it’s everything I dreamed it was going to be and more.

The tourbus pulls up outside the hotel and the next half-hour is spent disembarking, collecting luggage and checking in, while our tour guide flaps around us with her clipboard like a tweed butterfly. The hotel is even more spectacular from the inside: wood-panelled hallway, sweeping staircase, hunting pictures, portraits of bygone ancestors, stone-flagged floors . . . Everything reeks of history.

‘You’re in room twenty-eight,’ instructs Miss Steane, standing behind the front desk a few minutes later. Behind her is a large board filled with differently numbered keys, and handing me a small brass one, she ticks me off her list, seemingly oblivious to George, the general manager, who is standing next to her looking rather redundant.

‘It’s on the second floor,’ George is now adding timorously. ‘Turn right and it’s all the way to the end of the corridor.’

‘Great. Thanks.’ I nod, reaching for the retracting handle on my wheelie suitcase. ‘Which way’s the elevator?’

There’s a pause.

‘The elevator?’ repeats George, twiddling his cufflinks uncertainly. I notice a few glances flying around me and I twig.

Oh, God, Emily, don’t be so stupid. Of course there isn’t a goddamn elevator. This place is hundreds of years old.

But just as I’m about to correct myself, I hear a derisive snort behind me and someone mutters, ‘Americans, huh?’

I stiffen. I know immediately who that someone is, even before I twirl round and see him leaning up against the desk, arms folded, picking his teeth with a matchstick: Mr Asshole. I glare at him challengingly.

‘Have you got a problem?’ I demand, trying to appear ballsy and confident and not like the complete idiot I really feel. Unfortunately, my voice doesn’t play along and betrays me by coming out all shrill and nasal. I sound petulant, rather than nonchalant. I feel my face burning up, and curling my hand tightly round the handle of my suitcase, I dig my nails into my palm.

But Mr Asshole doesn’t react. Instead, he fixes me with his heavy-lidded eyes and adopts a bemused expression. ‘No,’ he replies casually, taking the matchstick out of his mouth. For a moment he studies it as he twirls it between finger and thumb, then flicks his gaze back to me. ‘But it appears that you have.’ The corners of his mouth turn up in smug amusement.

‘Really?’ I return the smile with as much sarcasm as I can muster. ‘And what might that be?’

We eyeball each other. Which is when I’m suddenly aware that it’s all gone very quiet. Everyone has stopped what they’re doing at the front desk and are now watching us like spectators at a boxing match.

Ding, ding.
Round two.

‘This isn’t Macy’s, you know.’ He smirks.

‘Now you tell me,’ I reply dryly.

‘This building happens to be over four hundred and fifty years old.’

‘I know that.’

‘And you want to take the elevator?’

My cheeks are on fire. ‘Well, no, obviously. I wasn’t thinking. I’m a bit jet-lagged, that’s all—’

‘Perhaps you’d like me to ask if there’s an
escalator
instead,’ he interrupts, his faded blue eyes twinkling.

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ I say stiffly, and grabbing my suitcase, I head for the staircase and begin bumping up the stairs.

George rushes to help me. ‘Now then, miss, let me do that, I can easily—’

‘I’m fine, honestly, I can manage,’ I insist, grasping on to the handrail and tugging the suitcase up behind me, trying not to grunt. Jesus Christ, it weighs a ton. What the hell’s in here?
That freaking black sweater you’re never gonna wear
, I tell myself crossly. I curse the black sweater. Thump, bang, thump. Because it’s all that black sweater’s fault. Bang, thump, bang. If it wasn’t for that black sweater, I wouldn’t have even thought about taking an elevator.

Thump, bang, thump.
Ouch!

Banging my legs on the corner of my suitcase, I wince with pain and bend down to rub my throbbing shin. Then catching Mr Asshole staring at me from the bottom of the staircase, I pretend I can’t feel a thing and continue climbing. Until, finally reaching the top, I hoist my suitcase on to the landing and flounce off down the corridor.

Lunch is being served in the Elizabethan dining room and so I quickly freshen up in my room. Dark and chintzy, it has a real four-poster bed, over which is hung a watercolour of a hunting scene (they seem to be very popular, they’re all over the hotel) and in the corner stands a big old wooden closet.

Having lived for as long as I can remember with birch-veneer flat-pack from IKEA, it’s a bit of a shock. Real furniture! And stuff that looks like it belongs in a museum, I think in amazement, running the flat of my hand across the door of the closet and feeling the centuries-old smoothness of the wood.

I’m interrupted by the jingly chime of my cell phone ringing. Grabbing my bag from my bedspread, I flounder around inside, trying to find it before it rings off. It can only be one person.

‘
Buenos dias.
’

‘Stella!’ I yell, grinning. Being independent, impulsive and all those strong adjectives is all very well, but there’s nothing better than getting a call from your best friend when you’re in strange surroundings. ‘It’s great to hear from you. What are you up to?’

‘Getting drunk,’ she laughs down the crackly line. ‘It’s the early hours of the morning here, and we’ve just arrived but I’m managing to keep awake with the help of tequila.’ She breaks off to take a loud slurp, and in the background I can hear the vibrant mix of music and laughter. ‘So, how is everything?’

‘Great,’ I reply enthusiastically, trying not to think about my run-in with the English guy downstairs. ‘How about you?’

‘Fabulous. White sand, eighty degrees, lots of men and the best margaritas ever. This is my . . . Um, I’ve lost count,’ she laughs, drunkenly. ‘So, tell me. What’s happening over there?’

‘Well, we just checked into this really amazing hotel . . .’ spying the view from the window I let out a gasp ‘. . . and it’s in the middle of all this gorgeous countryside,’ I continue, looking out at the wide, flat fields dotted with nothing but sheep and crossed with stone walls. It’s like a giant chessboard.

‘Mmmm, really?’ murmurs Stella on the end of the line.

‘And they’ve got all this amazing old antique furniture.’ Flopping down on to the flowery bedspread, I prop myself up by my elbows.

‘Mmmm, really?’

I can tell Stella’s not listening. Antique furniture probably isn’t high on her list of interests right now. If ever. ‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime here so we’re going to grab something to eat and then it’s sightseeing this afternoon,’ I say, changing the subject quickly.

‘So did you meet your Mr Darcy yet?’ she teases.

‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I reply. Leaning over the side of the bed, I dig out my toiletries bag and slick on some deodorant. ‘No, I met an asshole instead.’

‘Is he cute?’

‘He’s a pain in the ass.’

‘But cute?’ she persists.

I think about him for a moment, with his old corduroy jacket, shirt that’s buttoned up the wrong way, and under which I’m pretty sure love handles are lurking, and his messy hair that needs a good cut.

‘No, you definitely wouldn’t describe him as cute,’ I answer firmly.

‘Huh? Assholes are usually cute,’ tuts Stella, sounding surprised. ‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. A holiday romance might have been fun.’

‘
Fun?
’ I shudder at the thought of having any kind of romance with Mr Asshole. ‘No thanks. And anyway, I’m off men. I want to spend this vacation catching up on all my reading.’

‘I think you should keep an open mind. Just because you had a few bad dates . . .’

‘A few?’

‘Oh, come on, Emily. Live for the moment. Haven’t you read
The Power of Now
?’

Hang on a minute. Did she just say what I thought she just said? In all the time I’ve known Stella I’ve only ever seen her read her horoscope and the laundry instructions on her clothes. ‘No, I haven’t. Is it good?’ I ask, impressed.

‘Well, I haven’t actually read it myself,’ she confesses. ‘But I’ve met this guy who’s been telling me all about it. About how we have to stop projecting into the future all the time and not worry about what’s going to happen.’

‘What guy?’ I ask suspiciously. Not projecting into the future and living for the moment translated into man-speak sounds like a ruse to get Stella into bed.

‘His name’s Scott,’ she announces happily. ‘Do you want to say hi?’

‘No, it’s OK,’ I say quickly. One of my pet hates is when a girlfriend puts some random man they’ve just met on the phone. OK, so they’re in a darkened bar, intoxicated by alcohol and male attention, and I can see how it might seem a fun thing to do –
sort of
– but fun for who exactly? Never you. Nine times out of ten you’re usually at home, in your baggy old sweat pants, doing your hand-washing. Literally scrubbing your gussets with a nailbrush. The last thing you want to do is have a stilted, awkward conversation with a stranger whom you’ve never met and with whom you have absolutely
nothing
in common.